


The Gun

by suggsygirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Guns, Suicidal Thoughts, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 07:24:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suggsygirl/pseuds/suggsygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John cleans his gun...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gun

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to swissmarg for the beta. This is my first Sherlock fic.

John sits on his small single bed in his bare room and strips his pistol. His fingers move as if of their own accord as he cleans with tiny, precise movements, his actions efficient, honed, perfect. The room fills with the sounds of dry clicks, of metal against metal and then finally with a slick, dangerous sound, a slip slide of perfectly lubricated metal against perfectly lubricated metal. 

He weighs the gun in his hands, sights an imaginary target and definitely doesn’t think about pressing the hard, cool metal to his temple and pulling the trigger.

He doesn’t think about it for seconds upon seconds. Seconds stretching into minutes. The time frittering away as his breathing remains calm and steady and his hands do not shake. His hands never shake when he’s holding an end to it all, an answer.

Carefully and methodically John puts the gun away, closing the case and sliding it into his desk drawer with a final sounding click. Today is not the day; he can make it through one more day. He’ll do it tomorrow, he promises himself. 

~~~

“John! John Watson.”

John turns around and sees Mike, dreads the small talk he’s going to have to make and wonders whether it would be easier to pretend he doesn’t recognise the man. Rudeness has never come naturally or easily to John and so he acknowledges and makes small talk and tries not to let the damage to his psyche leach through into the conversation. By the time he leaves he has a headache and longs for cool metal to be pressed against his temple.

~~~

“John. I’d like you to meet Sherlock Holmes.”

John looks at the man and his mind goes completely and irrevocably blank. John didn’t know, or at least hadn’t fully acknowledged to himself, that his own mind was a particularly loud place and yet now he is staring at this odd, magnificent looking man he can think of nothing, can hear nothing. It’s absolute bliss and John smiles a genuine smile for the first time since he set foot back in Britain. 

~~~

The first thing he does when he walks through the door of what is to become his bedroom, is find a place for the gun, for his salvation. He slots it neatly into a drawer, under his dog tags and other items, the wood sliding smoothly into place as the drawer closes. He pats the drawer front emphatically and doesn’t feel like taking the gun out to look at it one more time, like he usually does. 

“Come on, John, the game is afoot,” Sherlock shouts up the stairs, and although John hears the ridiculous drama of the statement he can’t help but twitch a smirk and head out the door. 

~~~

The gun is still a salvation but now it’s not a way to end the pain; it’s a way to protect, to prolong the life he and Sherlock have together, to keep them safe.

John takes the gun apart and cleans it with a smile.


End file.
